


A Little Help

by summerofspock



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Falling In Love, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Season/Series 08
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2020-02-15 14:27:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18671539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerofspock/pseuds/summerofspock
Summary: Brienne and Jaime have survived the Great War. With the war yet to come, Jaime isn't certain he can bring himself to fight against his sister. All he knows is that, whatever decision he makes, he'd like to stay with Brienne because beside her he feels hopeful.





	A Little Help

**Author's Note:**

> i've never written in this fandom (im a star trek nerd) but the last couple of episodes have killed me and i needed to write SOMETHING
> 
> nothing you'll find here is groundbreaking as this chock full of braime tropes but its sickly sweet and I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> (also ive only ever read the first 2 books so this is almost entirely show canon)

Jaime collapsed on the bedroll in the great hall, he needed to take off his armor but he was exhausted and just wanted to catch his breath. After the battle, he’d worked tirelessly with the remaining soldiers to recover any wounded from the battlefield, dragging the dead into piles for burning north of the castle. He hadn’t slept in days and his entire body hurt.

Pulling back his sleeve, he clumsily unbuckled his golden hand and threw it on the ground next to him. It was a rare thing for him to wear it for more than 24 hours in a row and it chafed the sensitive skin of his stump.

Behind him he heard the familiar footfall of Brienne, the subtle clanking of her armor, somehow graceful even with her lumbering stature. He turned to look at her, once more struck by her height, menacing and ungainly. _Beautiful_ , his heart whispered.

Her face was covered in mud and sweat. The dead had no blood to shed else he was certain he would see blood there as well. Her neck showed the ravages of a wight’s teeth but she seemed stalwart and any effort Jaime made to get her to the infirmary he knew would be rebuffed.

“Ser Jaime,” she said brusquely with an inclination of her head.

“Ser Brienne,” he said with a small smile. He was rewarded with one of her tiny crooked smiles, it lit her blue eyes from within and his heart clutched in his chest.

“You’re alive,” she continued, having to raise her voice over the bustling of survivors in the keep who were setting up bedrolls on the floor, the rooms of Winterfell temporarily reserved for the truly injured.

“So are you,” he countered, heaving himself up to his feet despite the exhaustion in his muscles. He began the unsteady work of removing his armor, struggling with buckles and ties as the tired tendons of his non-dominant hand resisted the additional labor. Strong pale hands batted his away and took over the work. He resisted the urge to push them away. A little help was exactly what he needed.

“Let me help,” Brienne said quietly her voice close to his ear, seemingly sensing his hesitancy to accept any aid. Or perhaps knowing him well enough to expect it.

He huffed a little laugh and said, “Have at it.”

She made quick work of it—not that Jaime expected anything else, if Brienne was anything, she was efficient— and soon Jaime was able to feel the air on his sweat stiff skin. Taking a few steps away from him, Brienne began to remove her own armor.

Jaime couldn’t remember the last time he had seen her without it. Perhaps in that hideous pink dress. The armor was such an indelible part of her that it felt strange to see her in her leather jerkin. She reached for a moment as if to untie that as well but seemed to think better of it. She settled onto the laid out bed roll next to Jaime and let out a small sigh.

“I didn’t expect to survive this,” she said after a few moments, the movement in the hall dying down as folks began to settle into their beds and others left for food or mead.

“Do you think I did?” Jaime replied, unable to keep the usual harshness from his tone. He had been trying with her, trying to be kind, to show her he was more than the brash, sarcastic man he had been when they first met. She seemed to already know.

_He is an honorable man._

“You’re a better fighter than me. The only hope of survival I had was fighting next to you,” he said, rubbing his right forearm to relieve the ghostly tingling sensation that sometimes plagued him when he first removed the golden hand.

Brienne looked at him, her eyes shining, and Jaime couldn’t bear to be the recipient of that expression, all mingled hope and awe. He turned away from her even though he knew it would feel like rejection to her. Strong as she was, Brienne had never learned to shield her feelings. Not like Jaime had.

Then again she hadn’t spent years under the manipulative spell of Cersei or an entire childhood crushed by the expectations of a cruel father.

Images of Cersei’s cold face turning him away played through his mind. No matter what he told himself he still loved her. But the Cersei he loved was gone. He should have realized that the moment she took the throne amidst the ashes of their son’s corpse, as the dust had not even settled from the Sept she had destroyed.

His throat felt tight so he cleared it.

He felt a warm hand in his and looked down to see Brienne’s dirty fingers encasing his palm. “I’m glad you’re here,” she said firmly and the sadness Jaime had expected to see etched in her face was nowhere to be found. The feeling of her dry smooth skin against his chased all thoughts of Cersei from his mind. For a moment, he felt peaceful.

They laid down on their separate bedrolls, but fell asleep with their hands still entwined.

**

The next days were a flurry of activity. Rebuilding parts of the keep and trying to keep the injured alive. They needed every man they could get. Jaime tried to pretend that all the work he was doing wasn’t for the sake of marching south. Marching against Cersei.

Tyrion approached Jaime after a long day of stripping bodies of weapons and collecting them in the keep. Jaime was not accustomed to this dirty work, typically assigning it to his foot soldiers. They didn’t have the luxury of separating such duties at Winterfell as everyone was put to work.

“So...Brienne,” Tyrion said, more statement than question.

“What about her?” Jaime said as he marched to his quarters, desperate for a bath to rinse off the remnants of death he could practically feel on his skin.

“I thought maybe you’d tell me,” Tyrion said, sly as ever.

Jaime stopped in the hall and whirled on his brother. “If this is your way of asking if there is something between me and Brienne, I can assure you that there _is not_.”

“Oh come on,” Tyrion said with an exaggerated eye roll. “When you’re not following her around like a lost puppy, she’s following you around. Everybody thinks you’re already fucking. I never thought I’d see the day when you looked at anyone like you looked at Cersei.”

Jaime’s previous frustration turned into rage. The urge to strike Tyrion was so strong he had to clench his fist. “Don’t mention her name. Don’t even compare them. They are nothing alike.”

As he stomped off he heard Tyrion say after him, “Well, they’re both blonde!”

The post-battle recovery had found some of the rooms now free and Jaime had been granted one by the Stark bastard and the Dragon Queen. Reward for loyalty apparently. Locking the door behind him, Jaime took a bath so hot that it was close to burning, his skin a soft pink when he left the water. Pulling on his dirty tunic ruined his newfound cleanliness but he wasn’t exactly in the mood to wander the keep naked or wear some dead man’s clothes. He scrubbed his good hand through his hair and looked down at the golden hand. In the dim wintry light of Winterfell, the thing looked ridiculous. Why did he even wear it? Who was he impressing? It had certainly never impressed Cersei even if he had hoped it would. He tossed the thing into the trunk the Stark’s had oh so graciously loaned him along with his armor and locked it.

That night, the Starks hosted a feast—well Jaime thought of it as a feast but it was really a meeting of the lords in the great hall with stew and fresh bread—and Jaime found himself in the corner of the room, forgotten by all the northerners, as he watched that great beast of a man, Tormund, sit himself next to Brienne at one of the high tables, watched him speak loudly, watched him make her smile that crooked smile and felt something hot boil in his chest.  

In his mind’s eye he saw Robert Baratheon, fat and lordly, boasting at the high table, grabbing Cersei’s hips and pulling her into his lap. He saw Cersei’s tight smile.

He shook himself. That girl was gone.

As soon as was polite, he took his leave and hurried from the great hall. He didn’t belong there.

Brienne found him on the battlements. The lowlight of the moon made her look ghostly, her already pale face made paler in the blue light.

“Ser Jaime—I saw you leave. Are you ill?” she asked, concern coloring her voice, her eyebrows drawn together.

“I—” Jaime began, overwhelmed by her as he sometimes was. She was guileless. Her purpose was always her purpose, no machinations or manipulations. It made him feel as if his heart were bursting at the seams. Unbidden, he lifted his hands to reach for her but stopped himself. “No, I’m fine.”

The line between her brows smoothed as she searched his face. “It must be difficult,” she said and he turned to her in confusion.

She seemed to lose her words for a moment but then began, “I speak often of honor. It is our highest calling. Despite that, I understand that your life has not always been—that you have done your best in situations where honor, perhaps, would not have served you and where honor would have killed you.

“If you will not fight the battle against your sister, I do not believe anyone would blame you. The Great War is over and we have won. Your vow is fulfilled.”

“My sister no longer has my allegiance,” Jaime said tightly. He saw Brienne’s determination give way to surprise.

“Why?”

“She used wildfire to destroy the Sept of Baelor. Hundreds of people died. I thought I could—that I could forgive it. Loyalty,” he said by way of explanation. “But when she lied and refused to send men north, and then she threatened to kill me when I left...I realized that loyalty—I was the only one who felt it. Cersei is loyal to no one but herself.

“But even with that, I do not know if I can march against her,” Jaime said, looking away from Brienne’s too perceptive eyes.

“I understand,” Brienne replied. “You must do what you think is right. I believe the Starks would be thankful for your help.”

Brienne turned to leave but just before the stairs, she stopped and turned back. “It is not my place to say, but I would be honored if you fought by my side.”

It was all too much, Jaime’s heart already full of grief and thanks, and he found himself across the battlements all in one stride, arms around Brienne, pulling her against him in desperation to show his appreciation, his affection.

Brienne grunted as her armor made contact with Jaime’s body. He ignored the way it dug into his sternum and buried his hand in her fine hair before yanking her down into a kiss.

He’d spent his whole life kissing a woman who was exactly his height. Brienne, nearly a full head taller than him, felt entirely different even if the way she melted against him was the same.

Her lips were soft and she smelled of earth and smoke.

She pulled back with firm hands on his shoulders. “Ser Jaime, this is not—you're not—it’s not appropriate,” she said, flustered and trying to take a step back.

“Fuck appropriate,” he said gruffly and pulled her back against him. She went willingly and their kisses turned quickly desperate.

An exasperated grumble interrupted them. “Oh fuck.”

They pulled apart to see the Hound standing at the top of the stairs looking disgusted. Jaime smirked at him, hardly embarrassed, but when he looked at Brienne, she was swiftly turning bright red. She brushed past him and went down the stairs with a mumbled apology. The Hound looked down at her and then back at Jaime before shrugging. “Not my fucking problem.”

Jaime lurched back to attention and hurried down the stairs after Brienne. He found her fumbling with the lock to her bedroom door, handmaiden’s quarters connected to Lady Sansa’s. He grabbed her shoulder and turned her to face him. To his surprise, he saw tears gathering in her eyes.

“Brienne?” he asked, only managing the single word as he scrambled to think of something better to say. Something kind.

“Leave me be, Jaime. I will not be used like some whore to help you forget your heartbreak,” she spat, slamming her door open and rushing inside. Jaime stopped her from shutting the door in his face by elbowing his way in behind her.

“And why would you think I want to use you?”

Brienne squared her shoulders and drew herself up to her full height, forcing Jaime to look up at her. “Men like you do not entertain themselves with women like me. I know what men like you want and I am none of those things. I am not beautiful or soft and I never will be.”

Jaime took a step forward. Brienne stood her ground. “You aren’t those things. I won’t lie to you. But you are honorable and you are kind and you make me believe I can be a better man. You _make_ me a better man. Why wouldn’t I want you?”

Brienne sucked in a wavering breath and Jaime said in the silence, “You’re also a hell of fighter.”

Brienne laughed wetly, tears still streaking her cheeks and Jaime took another step closer to her, reaching up with his hand to cup her face as they leaned into each other with soft laughter.

Pulling away, Brienne looked at him, all blue eyes and shaking hands. “Would you help me take off my armor?”

Jaime didn’t protest even as he knew he might be more a hindrance than a help. Together, his left hand, and her right, they removed her armor piece by piece until she stood in front of him, untying her leather jerkin and letting her clothes fall away until she was clad only in a long shirt.

Jaime grasped her hip as they came together, long kisses and sighs. He discovered her movements were less practiced than Cersei’s but her sounds were more genuine and as they explored each other, he realized it felt something like healing.

  



End file.
